Free Pigeon Summer by Ann Turnbull Page A

get back as long as she kept going. “I’d better go now.”
    “And you’ll go straight home, mind? None of this Stafford nonsense?”
    Mary nodded, defeated.
    The big girl, Annie, who had been loitering outside to hear what was going on, suddenly brought from her apron pocket something wrapped in a damask cloth.
    “Here,” she said. “There’s three jam tarts in there. I pinched them for me and the other two to eat in bed later, but you look like you need them more.”
    Mary took the bundle, hiding it under her cardigan.
    “But the napkin?” she said.
    “Oh, Phyllis can smuggle that back. You can give it to her next time she comes home.” She gave a yelp of laughter at the sight of Phyl’s frightened stare. “She doesn’t know she’s born, your sister. Me and Ethel are working on her.”
    The door opened and Mrs Coulter snapped, “Annie! Inside, miss! There’s work to do.”
    Mary sprang away, hiding her gift, and scuttled around the corner of the building. The last glimpse she had of Phyl was her sister’s quick wave as she darted back inside.
    The gardener was bending over his radishes. Mary slipped the damask-wrapped bundle into the front basket on her bicycle, wedging it next to the Gaffer’s basket, and wheeled the bicycle briskly out of the garden and into the lane.
    As she cycled up towards the main road, breathing heavily with the exertion, she felt the rain starting: not isolated spots now, but a steady patter. The air was colder, and all around was that weird yellowish light and the feeling of stillness before a storm.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    The storm broke as she was cycling back up the tree-lined hill towards Cheveley. The sky turned dark and unleashed lashing rain, forcing her to jump off her bicycle and run to the shelter of the trees. She stood there while rain blackened the road and beat on the leaves.
    The trees gave shelter, but drops still penetrated. The Gaffer shifted in his basket, and next to him the cloth with the jam tarts in it was spotted with rain. Mary unwrapped it and ate the tarts while she waited.
    When the downpour eased, she wheeled the bicycle out again and cycled up out of the valley and on to the main road.
    It should have been lighter here, but the sky was so dark that it was almost as dark as the valley.
    Mary cycled on, reaching the field path and stile where she and Arnold had turned off that day to release the pigeons in the meadow. At that moment the sky was split by lightning, and seconds later she heard the thunder, a sharp crack overhead, followed by the hiss of rain.
    Mary knew she had to get under cover fast. She saw rain falling in the distance over the hillside and sweeping towards her in sheets. There was another flash, followed almost at once by its thunder. The storm was overhead. She daren’t go back to the valley; she knew better than to shelter under trees. But here, on the crest of the hill, she felt exposed to the lightning.
    She looked around. Where could she hide? And then she remembered: that place in the meadow where a broken fence marked the drop into an abandoned quarry, and Arnold saying, “There’s a little hollow space down the bottom; a cave, almost.”
    A cave. That would be a safe place to shelter. She hauled the bicycle off the road and took the Gaffer’s basket out. She left the bicycle propped against the hedge beside the stile. Once over the stile, she raced across the soaking meadow, feeling her shoes fill up with water. The rain beat on her head and shoulders. When she reached the quarry the sky was darker than ever and she could feel the electricity in the air.
    The Gaffer’s basket was going to make the descent difficult. Mary tucked her dress into her knickers, lowered herself over the edge, and began to climb down.
    The rock was wet and slippery, the rain blinded her, and the basket banged against her chest. She felt the sky flicker. Another crack of thunder resounded overhead. Mary groped for footholds and handholds. Slowly she